


Reconnect

by miraeyeteeth



Category: Over the Garden Wall (Cartoon)
Genre: Apologies, Distrust, Fix-It, Misunderstandings, Other, Regret, Slow Build
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-03
Updated: 2016-04-03
Packaged: 2018-05-30 21:55:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 18,357
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6442390
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/miraeyeteeth/pseuds/miraeyeteeth
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Repairing broken trust is not an quick or easy process.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Rebuilding

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [I Have Always Wanted To Have A Neighbor Just Like You](https://archiveofourown.org/works/4546557) by [IncurableNecromantic](https://archiveofourown.org/users/IncurableNecromantic/pseuds/IncurableNecromantic). 



> This fic is intended to be a direct sequel to I Have Always Wanted To Have A Neighbor Just Like You, and will likely make very little sense if you read this on its own. Fair warning.

Enoch couldn’t leave Pottsfield. He couldn’t have justified it before and he certainly couldn’t now, not when everyone was still reeling and trying to recover from the disastrous fire. Enoch had to stay, had to protect and nurture his people and help them rebuild. To leave them now to go search the Winter Wilds would be a ghastly betrayal of everything he was, everything he stood for.

It didn’t matter that he wouldn’t have had his citizens to guide and safeguard if not for the actions of the being he had banished from his lands. It made no difference how sickened he felt when he told Parson Bleak to put away the dark, oozing antler somewhere safe but hidden, or the way he was unable to bring himself to even look at it.

More to the point, Enoch wasn’t even sure that his vessels would be able to function if he tried to venture too far from the boundaries of Pottsfield; he’d never had a reason to leave before.

He didn’t have a reason now.

Not that it stopped him from watching the woods hopefully while his people started clearing trees for lumber to rebuild the town. Maybe the Beast would take offense to the violation of their usual agreement, and come back.

The Beast made no appearance. Pottsfield was slowly rebuilt. Enoch was unsure if it was an effect of his own emotions bleeding through, or the reluctance some of his citizens showed to enter the old town area, but they ended up raising their town around the black tree that had been planted in their fields. The main square featured the dark, twisted thing that always seemed to be cold to the touch, even in the heat of summer, and never grew any leaves. The Pottsfielders took to having picnics in the shade of it.

Some nights, Enoch stood in the square and sang to the tree, ditties and ballads and wordless humming melodies that rippled through the air. Sometimes songs of peace and plenty, sometimes songs of remorse and loss, sometimes songs of hope and celebration. He never knew if it accomplished anything at all, but sometimes the thinner branches of the tree would shiver in the wind when he sang, and he felt better for it.

Other nights, he stayed in his new barn, or double-checked the town’s buildings for safety and stability.

But on nights when the North Wind howled out of the Winter Wood and rattled the shutters on the windows, Enoch would patrol the edge of Pottsfield, peering through the trees and listening for any snippet of song that might have been carried on the wind. He wandered a few trees deep into the woods sometimes, pondering just what kind of boundary there existed between the autumn town and the winter wood. The fields behind him had been woodlands before, after all, before they needed new lumber and materials. What was it that made _that_ Pottsfield, and _this_ not?

Though, perhaps due to the extended absence of the Beast, the trees closest to the border seemed more awake, less dormant, than the trees further inside, and the snows were thinner on the ground or gone entirely. It wasn’t thaw, exactly, more as if the clock had reversed on the borders of the woods, reverting back to the crisp frost of autumn instead of the deep and quiet chill of winter.

 He wondered if that made this strip _his_ woods, instead. Or maybe this was a liminal space, an in-between where anything was possible. Those were the places to meet all kinds of strange and bizarre creatures, weren’t they?

He could hope, at least. And he would lift his voice, too, and sing whatever songs that had made the tree in the center of town shiver. If he could not hear the Beast, perhaps the Beast would hear him.

Years passed, time ambling by in that slow march that Enoch was only distantly aware of in the arrival of the harvest and the raising of new citizens. Enough time passed that there were more new ones than there were old Pottfielders, the ones that had come from the tree, and more of the woods had to be chopped down to make space and houses.

The Beast did not show up to object this time, either. No matter how hard Enoch watched, how long he listened, he still saw and heard no sign of the Beast.

Until one night, when Enoch was on his ramble, singing as he normally did, and he spotted movement in between the bare and gnarled trees.

What was it? A traveller? Perhaps they were being pursued by the Beast? 

No, better. There, a flicker of cold white light in the depths of the woods. Enoch’s song faltered for an instant, before he continued, hoping that whatever had come near would be drawn closer, would understand his intentions.

Instead, the light stopped, then began rapidly retreating, disappearing back between the trees. Whatever it was, it was leaving, and Enoch had the terrible suspicion that it would never come back.

No. No!

He flung out his influence, plunging into trees and roots that were teetering on the edge between autumn and winter. To his essence, it felt akin to being doused in icy water, but Enoch was far past caring about that. He forced the plants to wake, to seize and bring back that source of light, whatever it might be. The Beast, or maybe a lantern-bearer, but either way would grant him the chance for a conversation eventually. The Beast could not abandon the lantern.

It may have just been a function of using such foreign vessels, but whatever he captured certainly didn’t feel like the Beast, or like any other creature he had encountered. It felt slick and smooth and cold, like he was trying to grab a hold of a glacier. If not for the way it was moving, he would have thought he’d accidently snatched up an ice sculpture instead of a living thing. 

But whatever it was, the thing fought wildly against the roots and branches, clawing, tearing, shredding the bonds, thrashing and clinging to the earth or tree trunks. The sounds of the struggle, the scrabbling and dragging, carried to Enoch’s more familiar form, but not a word, a yowl, or a scream reached his ears.

Finally, the thing was yanked bodily into the clearing that Enoch stood in. Its face turned towards him and it seemed to freeze.

Enoch felt stunned by the sight of the thing as well. The face didn’t seem to have eyes, strictly; it was encased in ice that was covered in tiny facets like the compound eye of an insect, and light filtered through the substance in a dispersed and eerie white glow. The rest of the thing was covered in leaf litter and mud from its trip to reach him, but it, too, seemed to be wrapped in ice, thick and translucent with a barely-visible black core riddling the stuff like a skeleton. Its form was bestial, quadrupedal, with large, sharp-edged claws on long fingers and spikes of ice along its spine and over its limbs.

It had horns, too, -or antlers?- long spurs of jutting, sharply pointed ice. The left one had more of the blackness shot through the center of it, the right gleamed clear.

“…Hope-eater?” Enoch asked.

The creature spasmed- flinched?-, and turned its face towards the ground. After a heartbeat of time, and with a creak, it raised a clawed hand to its chest. The sheet of ice that laid over the black ribcage like a skin sloughed off and shattered into slush on the ground beneath the thing. There was a groan and snap of wood, and then the thing removed its hand, pulling free a warped chunk of black metal that had an achingly familiar cold white glow spilling from it. The thing placed the object on the ground at Enoch’s feet. That done, it slunk back as far as the bonds still wrapped around on it would allow, hunching down among the brittle and naked branches of a low shrub. It turned its face into its shoulder and went still as death.

Enoch stared at the thing for a moment, then dropped his gaze down to the burden it had laid at his feet. Gingerly, he picked up the item to examine it. The object was much like the creature before him; strange and spiked and foreboding. A metal grille covered the light almost entirely, only a handful of slim slots allowing the glow to spill out, and it was covered with razor-edged barbs and hooks. A hole near the top of it was barely visible against the night-black metal, a faint sheen of oil around the edge. It looked more like some kind of nightmare-fueled incendiary device than a lamp or lantern.

Could this be the Dark Lantern? He knew nothing else that had the same glow. Why would it look so different now? Had the Beast bitten off more than he could chew again, this time with no one to rekindle the flame? Was this the Winter Wood’s new warden, the Beast’s replacement?

Enoch felt a shudder of anger ripple through him at that thought, but clamped down on it. Haste and presumption had led him to this in the first place. If this creature was the new Voice of the Night, or simply a strange, unrelated denizen of the Winter Wilds, why would it act this way around Enoch? Why would it hand over the lantern, assuming that indeed was what it was, to him so easily?

Though, if it _was_ the Beast, why would _he_ hand over the lantern, either?

 _I will blow you to smoke the next time I see a hair of you_ , Enoch remembered his words, and was given his answer.

The Beast, or whatever he had become, expected Enoch to kill him.

 He nearly physically recoiled at that thought, a quiver running down the tendrils holding the lantern. He should put it down. Put it down and release the Beast, let him flee back into his home and feel safe, or safer, once more.

Considering the way the Beast saw him now, they would likely never meet again, but maybe that was for the best. Apologies didn’t seem as though they would be able to repair this, or even come close. All the same, Enoch hesitated, selfishly unwilling to let everything end on such an unsatisfactory note.

 _Just what could have caused the Beast to change so much?_ he wondered. The Beast he had knew had always been adamant about remaining himself, refusing to take human worshippers on the grounds that they would change him into something he was not. It had been a long time since they had last met. Had he changed his mind? Was this new form a result of the godhood he’d finally accepted? Enoch didn’t think that would be the case. But what other answer was there?

Enoch remembered the strange black tree that they had built up the new Pottsfield around. It wasn’t an Edelwood growing in his town; the tree had not been fed off the dying hopes and overwhelming despair of a _human._

Just how much of himself had the Beast left in Pottsfield when he returned Enoch’s citizens? 

Enoch shifted in place, ribbons rustling, and made up his mind. “Can you understand me?” he asked the thing. It didn’t respond. Not promising. “I’m not going to hurt you. I… I want to help. But I’m going to need to hold onto this for a little while longer.”

The thing still didn’t move, and if Enoch hadn’t seen it retreat after pulling out the lantern, he might have thought that it needed the lamp inside its chest to function at all. All the same, speaking out loud at least allowed Enoch to focus on what he had to do next. He turned around and started to head back to Pottsfield. The motionless thing was pulled along behind him, until he got to the very edge of the woods.

He left the creature there, tethered by roots and branches, and carried the lantern over the boundary between the trees and the farmland. The thing behind him suddenly creaked and thrashed, tearing gouges into the soft dark soil beneath it. If it started slashing at the plants, it could probably escape, but Enoch wasn’t particularly concerned. It would have to return for the lantern, no matter what else happened. 

Enoch reached the cluster of buildings that made up the heart of Pottsfield, and gathered his people around him. They stopped in the center, at the base of the twisted black tree that they had built around. “Chop it down,” Enoch said.

The Pottsfielders were confused. Surely Enoch didn’t mean that! Not after what the tree had done for them, and the way that Enoch had cared for it and sang to it over the years.

Enoch shook his huge head. “It served its purpose. Chop it down, and gather up all the wood.”

They obeyed, fetching axes and felling the monstrous plant. Enoch helped them pull it down over a roadway instead of crushing a building with it. If any of the Pottsfielders were curious about just why they then hauled the lumber to the windmill, they didn’t question Enoch about it.

“Go home. Stay indoors until the morning,” Enoch bade them, reaching out with ribbons and presence to comfort and seek comfort from, to pour satisfaction into his people. “Thank you.”

The Pottsfielders took their leave, and Enoch ground the wood and filled jars with thick oil so black it seemed fathomless. Only once his task was complete did he pick the lantern back up and carry both it and the jars to the place where he had left the thing.

It had indeed broken free of the bonds, and paced agitatedly back and forth at the edge of the woods, still eerily silent but for the creaks and rustles of its movement.

It stopped when it seemed to sense Enoch, claws flexing and sinking into the dirt again. Its head twitched this way and that, as if it were trying to dislodge something from it. A tense pause stretched between them for a moment.

Then Enoch lifted the dark lantern and one of the jars. It seemed as though pouring the black tree’s oil into the lantern reserve was just the thing to make the creature finally break its silence. It spasmed and let out a terrible, disonant shriek that resonated through every part of Enoch like five hundred nails scraping down a chalkboard. The ice around it creaked and cracked, shards falling loose and glittering in the dirt below it. The dark lantern  _blazed_ with cold white light, gnawing hunger spreading through Enoch like a deathly chill.

Enoch grimaced, but tipped the jar and added more of the oil anyway. The jar ran dry and Enoch lifted another one. The aching emptiness that pulsed into him didn’t cease, ripping at his core. He distantly registered that the creature didn’t scream continually; it took long moments to wheeze and whimper before finally seeming to muster enough energy to shriek again. At some point its legs gave out under it and much of the ice around it shattered and fell away, leaving only the gaunt black framework that formed its core.

Finally the last drops of the oil were fed into the lantern, and the Beast laid on the ground amid the melting shards of ice, panting heavily. Enoch noticed that his right antler was little more than a stub, and was stabbed through with a pain worse that the howling starvation that carved through his insides during the feeding of the lantern.

The Beast shuddered and turned his face away from Enoch. “Are… Are you so set on snuffing out everything I am in one swoop?” he croaked, curling in on himself.

“You can talk,” Enoch breathed, almost daring to hope.

The Beast snorted, a broken creak of a sound. “I could always do that. I couldn’t _feel_ the same way I can now, but speech never left me. It’s only that now I don’t see a reason to abide by your commands, when you insist on torturing me instead of finishing it quickly,” the Beast replied.

“Hope-eater, I-”

“If you didn’t want to hear my voice, if you didn’t want me in Pottsfield, you shouldn’t have _dragged_ me here,” the Beast snapped, his voice like a lash.

Enoch swallowed and reached out with one tendril, the one that the still-warped lantern hung from. He didn’t miss the way the Beast flinched. Gingerly, he placed the lantern on the ground next to the Beast, and drew back again.

The Beast turned his head slightly, gaze darting from the lantern, up to Enoch for just a moment, and then back to the cold white beacon. Quicker than Enoch might have thought possible in the Beast’s current condition, he snatched up the lantern and pulled it back beneath his ragged cloak.

“I made an awful mistake, Lord of the Wastes. I took my anger out on you when you deserved none of it. I’m truly sorry for what I did to you. I… cannot make it right again, but-”

“Why bother?”

“What?”

“If you believe you can’t fix it, why are you trying? What are you playing at?” the Beast demanded as he slowly, painfully, got to his feet.

"I just… wanted you to be able to sing again,” Enoch said, quietly. He moved further back, away from the Beast, giving him more space. “You won’t be bothered again, should you decide to travel the part of your territory that neighbors Pottsfield. I promise that. And, if you ever wish to return, for any reason, you are always welcome here.”

The Beast stared at him for a moment, then turned and vanished into the shadows of his domain.

* * *

More years passed, enough for the new, normal tree planted in the center of town to have grown to the height of a man, before Enoch heard singing in the winter woods once more.

More importantly, the song did not stop when he joined in.


	2. Renewal, pt. 1

The Beast had known better than to return to Pottsfield. His own lands were vast enough that he needed not  pass anywhere near that place, and indeed, actively avoided thinking about it as much as he was able. Patching himself back up and resuming the hunt occupied his time very well, even if the enjoyment he usually felt was gone. Most of what he felt was gone. The songs that had rang through his very being, that poured out easier than breath, had vanished like snow in summer. His voice was good for nothing but speech, and that was worthless, meaningless. Good for nothing but lies. All that remained now was ice, ice and darkness and intent.

It was for the best. None of that had done him any good. Now it was gone, forever, and he could focus on what mattered.

But the adamant avoidance that his train of thought had taken had meant that he had not considered that the borders of his realm might have been pushed back. It had meant that he did not realize just how close he had come to the boundary until a faint strain of song reached his ears, and he felt a lurching tug from somewhere in his very center. He crept a few steps closer before even realizing what he was doing. He froze in place, torn with indecision for the first time in decades. That sound could only mean one thing. It meant he was too close. It meant he should leave, immediately, hurry far away and ignore the idiot tugging of his souls towards that place, towards that singer.

…He would only stay for a moment. Just enough to hear another few bars of song. Then he would leave. And remember where to avoid next time.

He turned his head to better listen- and the song faltered. Oh no. The Beast hurriedly stumbled backwards. He whirled around to bolt for the heart of his domain. A creak was the only warning he had before his woods turned against him, roots erupting out of the ground to seize him again. Branches reached down to drag him backwards, pull him back before that god.

Even as he fought against the trees, a part of was grimly resigned to what was going to happen. He’d never been strong enough to get away, had he? He’d known what would happen if he strayed too close, but he had done it anyway. He’d been stupid and reckless and now he was paying the price.

He’d expected the god of skins to be merciless, to be cruel and disdainful of this thing that had dared to venture near his territory after being so clearly made to see that it was unwelcome. In a way, it had been easy to surrender, to yield to the titanic power before him and soundlessly ask for a quick end. But he had perhaps been naive in underestimating the depths of the god’s cruelty. Death was expected, and he no longer truly had the capacity to fear it.

But then the god had forced that capacity back onto him, every drop of fear and pain and despair and ludicrous, unanswered, somehow unwavering affection poured back into his soul. The god of Pottsfield was not content with extinguishing a partial Beast, no. The Beast had to be  pieced back together first, made whole and fully capable of experiencing every second of agony the god would inflict, of suffering a thousand times more than he would have otherwise.

If he hadn’t been wracked with pain and terror and despair, he would have been impressed with the absolute depth of sadism that the god had shown, for every drop of his heart’s oil was laced with song. Songs of belonging and affection and home, things that the Beast had been stupid enough to begin to hope for, unattainable wishes that the god of skins knew about, had _always_ known about, and had allowed the Beast to humiliate himself with like some idiot, infatuated child. Every melody, every note was a cruel taunt, a taste of what the Beast had so craved and never had a _chance_ to attain. Some distant part of him bitterly appreciated the irony of it all; dying hopes garnished with taunting, uncaringly cruel music was exactly what his lantern was fed with normally.

The god had always known the Beast would come back, and he had prepared accordingly. It would not have been enough to merely break him against a tree, or to rip him apart piece by piece, or to trap him and make him watch as the lantern burned lower and lower. That would be too merciful, too kind.

So, helpless and agonized and huddled at the god’s feet, the Beast broke the second dictate that the god had placed on him and hurled it back in his face. Perhaps hearing the sound of the Beast’s voice would anger the god enough that he would extinguish the lantern quickly, before he could think better of it.

Instead, the god had returned it. That was honestly an action that the Beast had not anticipated. He expected it to be yanked away at the last moment, and continued to expect that until he was deep in the Winter Wood again, far away enough that the god of skins could hold no power over it.

He did not understand what this latest scheme by the god was meant to accomplish.

* * *

It was strange, walking his woods on two feet once more. His form felt odd, unfamiliar, and the roiling emotions he carried in his breast were almost overwhelming after the numbness of before.

But he was still the lurking terror of the unknown. He was still insatiable hunger and consuming despair, and there were always lost souls for him to guide to their final resting place.

It was easy to slip into routine, to stalk and confuse and drive his prey to hopelessness. And when the Edelwood started to curl around the unfortunate woman’s weakened and shivering body, music bubbled up out of him, unbidden, to spill through the air like blood through water. The suddenness of it startled a laugh out of him, and he chuckled as he slipped a finger under the human’s chin, tilting her face up. He crooned to the woman as her eyes slipped closed for the last time.

She should be honoured; no human had heard the Beast’s song in living memory.

Though she was far from the last one do so.

* * *

The Beast’s music had returned to him, but that wasn’t the only song that was rattling around in his soul any more. The god’s little parting gift had wriggled in under his skin and needled him any time his concentration slipped, any time he stopped to rest. It was both infuriating and humiliating, a constant reminder of something he’d much rather bury in the frozen earth and forget. It made him want to tear himself open and physically yank out the saccharine harmonies. And while he was at it, rip out the other uncomfortable feelings that had been so inconsiderately shoved back into his soul.

He did contemplate that doing just that, before deciding that it would be incredibly unlikely to provide the desired results.

He burned to hurl the god’s false gentility back in his face, to stalk through the woods and disturb every peaceful Pottsfield evening with songs of darkness and torment, so loud they could not be ignored. If he could find no peace with the god’s songs in his soul, there was no reason why the god should be able to rest tranquilly in his precious little town. And the god invited him to come back, after all. He had practically been issued a written invitation.

Ah, but he knew that returning to the woods near Pottsfield would be incredibly unwise. The god sang of patience, after all (he knew that far too well by now), and the Beast was not a stranger to the idea of letting his prey mature and slowly grow steeped in misery and isolation before reaping them; the songs could be serving a double purpose of tormenting him and eventually driving him back into the clutches of that god.

But… it was really only fair for him to reclaim his woods. The god had only been able to turn his trees against him because of his neglect of the area. So long as he paid attention this time, and made certain there was no hint of autumn creeping into where he stood, there shouldn’t be any danger.

And if he were to leave his lantern safely out of the way, then even in the worst came to pass, the god would only be able to seize his body. He was fairly sure that he could survive being torn apart, so long as the lantern burned. And there was something satisfying about the idea of the god realizing he had been denied any further chances to desecrate the Beast’s soul.

But to be sure that the lantern was reasonably secure, that it would be fed in the result of an… extended absence, he needed a lantern bearer.

The Beast contemplated his options, turned on his heel, and strode purposefully through the woods.


	3. Renewal, pt. 2

The Beast watched the human stumble through his woods, clutching a once-fine blue coat around herself. She was not as brawny as some of the lantern-bearers he had over the ages, but she would serve his needs. She smelled of fear and dread, as most of those who wander through his wood did, but more than that, she smelled of anger. Of burning, simmering rage against those who had wronged her. Good. An easy emotion to play off of, strong enough to keep her moving through the woods for a decent amount of time, and predictable. Love was… more difficult to handle; it required a different touch. One he was not certain he felt confident enough with, at the moment.

The woman’s coat snagged on a thorn bush, sharp barbs biting through the soft wool to tear the garment further. She cursed and struggled with it, the basket in her arms hindering her movements.

The Beast slipped close, reached out, and unsnagged the fabric. The woman’s face snapped up to stare at him, blue eyes wide in a bone-pale face; freckles stark against the bloodless skin.

“You’ve ventured far from home, young one,” the Beast said.

“Don’t have one of those, anymore,” the woman snapped, hand fumbling in her basket.

“Oh? Do you seek a new one among these trees, then?”

“I seek a witch,” came the reply. The woman’s arm tensed, grip tight around something in her basket. “And I won’t be stopped by you.”

“I’m not here to stop you.” The Beast tilted his head to the side. “But are you looking to barter a spell? I’m afraid I have not seen any witches in these woods for many years now,” he remarked. Not even technically a lie, that. Not that it meant they weren’t there… He breathed in the dying flicker of hope he felt within the human. A shame he had other uses for this one, but he had others that he could plant.

The woman grit her teeth and clenched her free hand in a fist. “I’ll find one. She’ll make them pay.”

“Revenge? Why didn’t you say so?” The Beast slipped effortlessly to the other side of the human. “You don’t need to find a witch for that. I’m more than capable of assisting…”

“For what price, demon? Do you want my soul?”

“Hmn. Maybe later,” the Beast replied, eyes glinting. “I won’t take it until after you’re done with it, I assure you. But you’re free to refuse, of course. I suppose it just depends on how badly you want your vengeance.”

“More than anything,” the woman growled, and her grip on whatever weapon she carried loosened, slightly.

“Good.” the Beast slid a few more steps back into the woods, his hand unseen under his cape, brushing over the lantern. It had been reverting back to its old form; but much more slowly. There were still a few razor edges on it. A good vessel for hatred. “What you must do, then, is keep your rage burning…”

* * *

Unburdened, he crept cautiously through the woods, remembering where he had been when he had last encountered the god. Enough time had passed that the gouged and disturbed earth had been consumed by the wilderness once more. Everything eventually was. He stopped short of the area, laying a hand on the bark of the nearest tree. Still, frozen, cold. No slow, sluggish pulse of autumn infecting the ancient wood. His influence held strong over this area once more. None of his woods would be turned against him now, not without a fight.

The night was silent this time, unstained with the songs of that other territory. The way that things should be. Empty and desolate, except for whatever music that the Beast provided.

He savagely shoved down the strains of song that shivered through his center, the traitorous ones that matched the missing harmonies of the night. Those were not the ones that would be heard ringing through his woods, nor through his own spirit. The god and his people would be subject to his music, this night.

He threw back his head and sang.

* * *

It was a gorgeous evening. Crisp and clear, with the moon slowly rising full and bright over the horizon, the bright gold of the wheat fields bathed in silver. It truly made no difference the time of day or night, not to the inhabitants of Pottsfield, but mortals did seem to thrive on routine, and Enoch prided himself on the care he took of his citizens. The daylight hours were focused on industry and work, the nighttime hours for rest and leisure. Being as it was such a beautiful night, most were opting for the latter choice, staying outside to watch the stars and the moon or to converse with their neighbours.

The strain of music that drifted through the night made all the Pottsfielders shiver; quite a feat when one considered that they had little in the way of flesh that would normally be expected to respond to such stimuli.

The response it elicited from their leader was more notable, however. Enoch went suddenly and entirely still, as though he had been frozen in time. Joy seemed to bubble up from the ground itself, rippling outwards and perfuming the air with the warm, heady scent of molasses, settling in chests and fizzing in skulls.

Enoch slowly, slowly turned to face the northern woods, as if afraid that sudden movements would frighten away the song that had crept from the woods and curled around their town. The Pottsfielders turned that way as well, as slowly and silently as Enoch had, and stood vigil over the woods as the night sky wheeled on above them.

They listened until the song finally faded away, and the sky started to show the pale grey light of false dawn.

* * *

The Beast had expected some kind of reply. The god had not released him, had not set the bait of a trap in the Beast’s own soul, to have no plan for when he inevitably returned.

But nothing had happened. There was no response whatsoever. No destruction or warping of his trees, no booming and terrible outcry, no taunting riposte.

Was he perhaps not close enough to be heard? No. He knew by now how far Pottsfield lay from the forest. If anything, they would have gotten closer in the intervening years since his last encounter with their god.

They could hear him perfectly well. He was simply being ignored.

This would not stand. He would be acknowledged.

* * *

The songs returned the next night. And the night after that.

It had a strange effect on Enoch, everyone agreed. Not a bad one, per se, but their mayor had become more distracted during the day, and increasingly more anxious and eager by turns as the sun dipped lower in the horizon. Not that he said anything of the sort to the citizens of Pottsfield, but the air itself all but began to buzz with anticipation as the sun went down. Enoch had never been terribly good at subtlety or subterfuge, not around them.

It took very little time for the older citizens to draw the connection between the songs, the great dark tree they had felled years ago, and the long-absent Mr. Hope, and the gossip spread through the town like wildfire.

No one was quite sure how to approach Enoch about the situation; it was quite clear that he and Mr. Hope had some kind of falling out, and that Mr. Hope was only now coming anywhere near Pottsfield. Enoch had done his admirable best to keep his distress from the rest of them (all for naught, really, but it was the thought that mattered), and it did seem rather impolite to bring the topic up, no matter how obvious it had become as of late.

They decided the best option was to stay near him as the sun went down, to show support.

So it became a ritual of a sort, that the town would cluster around their mayor when the darkness of the night bled over the landscape and the music began again.

This night, it was not a strange song that they heard, nor was it a repeat of the other night’s melodies. It was a shadowed reflection of one of Enoch’s songs, one of the ones he sang while working the fields.

One of the ones he had sung to the dark tree on lonely nights.

Enoch went from being nervously restless, his ribbons a soft susurrus against the prior silence of the evening, to once more going entirely still. The music poured over them, thick and dark as tar, for several long moments.

Then Enoch, faltering on the first word, sang the next line of the melody, his voice ringing out and mingling with the voice of the night.

The music from the woods stopped.

So did the spill of joy that had been seeping out from Enoch, and the evening was suddenly empty and cold. The silence stretched on interminably, long enough that some of the Pottsfielders began to turn away from the woods and back towards their mayor, to offer comfort.

Then the song began again, as though it had never ended. This time, it did not cease when Enoch joined in.

Almost everyone agreed that they simply had to bring out lawn chairs and picnic blankets for the next evening, so they could properly enjoy the event.

* * *

The god had finally responded.

The Beast wasn’t sure what to make of it.

He was unsure of what to make of almost everything, now. He wondered if things had been this complicated before he had lost and regained his heart, and if he was merely remembering the past incorrectly.

It had been a whim, really, making a parody of the joy-songs of that other place. He’d thought that putting the songs to word would have perhaps loosened or evicted them from their stubborn place in his heart. He had not expected the god to join in on his mocking of the sickly-sweet melody.

Perhaps it was an attempt to turn them genuine, instead. Or mocking the Beast as he sang. Was there really much of a difference between those two possibilities?

Really, he should have expected it. The god knew the words already; apparently the only thing that had stopped the god before had been a lack of familiarity with the songs.

What was that supposed to mean? Was it an attempt to drive him away? Make clear of his needlessness here?

He refused to be harried, and while the daylight hours had him tending to his woods, at night he always returned to the section of his territory that was near Pottsfield. He did not stop when the god joined in on the songs, nor when the other began to pick up on the Beast’s songs.

He told himself it was purging him of those emotions and songs that itched under his skin, that he was sending the god’s curses back home to roost. He certainly felt less agitated when he sang. That was something. Perhaps one day the tugging of his souls would lessen and he could finally lay this matter to rest.

The Beast had almost fallen into a routine when the next strange happening of that place rattled him out of his complacency.

That night, when the song drew to a close, and the Beast paused, listening as the last echoes faded. A spark of curiosity glimmered in him. If he waited a moment, would the god begin the next on his own?

Instead of music, though, a different sound rang out through the crisp evening air, one that had him starting back a step before the nature of the noise registered. It was applause, cheers and whistles and clapping.

The Harvest King’s followers had been listening as well, to the duets- that was, the songs he had been singing that the god had joined in on. The Beast was disconcerted for a moment; he had thought of this as a private kind of situation until now. Foolish, really, when he was singing loudly enough to be heard almost a league away.

An appreciative audience was nothing to sniff at, though. Especially not if the god had been trying to drive him away.

He felt a sliver of satisfaction slide through him, and was too occupied with beginning the next song to question if it was an effect of that place and its god.

* * *

Enoch had not realized he was not alone in sowing seeds in the northernmost tillage until he heard the harsh, clear snap of a broken stick ring through the air like a gunshot. He lifted his head just as it registered that the sound had come from the north, from the woods. There were a pair of eyes there, staring out from far back amongst the trees. Eyes that he almost hadn’t thought he would ever see again, even with the songs they had been sharing.

Enoch froze up, all at once too many and too few words springing to mind.

After a beat of silence between them, the Beast spoke first. “I demand recompense,” he stated, flinging the words out like the point of a rapier.

“I- Yes, of course. If there’s anything I can offer that would make amends-” Enoch began.

The eyes narrowed. “A fine sentiment, but that is hardly going to make the trees grow back.”

Enoch faltered. “…the what?”

“My _trees_. Look at this place. You’ve gnawed away four, no, five acres of my territory. This is unacceptable,” the Beast snapped.

Out of all the things that Enoch was expecting, this was not one of them. “Um,” he replied.

“Yes, I know you had to rebuild, but that’s no excuse for blatant trespassing, vandalism, and thievery. We had an agreement and you broke it. I demand repayment.”

“Y-yes. You’re right. Egregious of me. I accept the blame. What… what would you like?”

“My debt. It is-”

“Repaid! It’s repaid in full. More than full. In fact, now I owe you something, Lord of the Wastes.”

“…really?”

“Absolutely. A favour is the least I can offer after my transgressions. With your trees,” he added. “I’m in your debt.”

“…Well, I’m glad we’re on the same page with this, then. I’ll just hold onto this debt of yours for now, I think. And if you cut down even one more tree, I’ll-”

“No, no, I absolutely understand. Not one twig will fall without your express permission,” Enoch agreed. “Of course, I completely understand if you feel the need to examine the borders yourself every so often, just to make sure.”

“I think it’s already been proven that you can’t be trusted to stay your bounds when left to your own devices,” the Beast replied. “And I shall have to return when I wish to collect your debt, as well. You can look forward to knowing I’m never too far.”

“Oh, believe me, I will,” Enoch replied, dipping his head.


	4. Renewal, pt. 3

The next time he ventured near Pottsfield, he spotted a… _thing_ that had been placed in his woods; a splash of color that was as vivid against the backdrop of his monochrome realm as a splatter of blood against virgin snow. Had the agreement they had reestablished been violated already? His back snapped straight at the affront and he took several strides towards the thing before freezing. Whatever it was, it had only been placed a few trees deep into his woods, very close to the border of the autumn town. And it had been purposefully hung on the side eastern side of the tree, facing the forest.

Whoever had placed the object had wanted the Beast to see it.

He slunk backwards, sinking into the deep shadows that sheltered his woods from the last fading glimmers of twilight. He peered out from between the trees and scanned the fields beyond for signs of a trap. There was no sign of the god, but he was an entity that could shuck forms at will, after all. If the god was using a smaller skin…

The Beast gritted his teeth. Damn this place. Damn it for making him wary of traversing his own woods, and damn its god for the idiot way he reacted to these things. So help him, if the Harvest King was planning on dragging the Beast out to make a fool of again, planning to ignore their agreement and the debt that he claimed to owe the Beast, now, the Beast was going to find a way to bring Pottsfield down around his ears.

With one last suspicious glance around, the Beast crept forward, tense as a bowstring. He snatched up the object and darted back into the safety of the deeper trees. Only then did he examine the thing more closely.

It was a garland, woven of chrysanthemums and corn husks. A ribbon had been used to tie a letter to the garland, and the envelope read, in carefully elegant script, ‘Mr. Hope’.

The Beast blinked at the decoration and its accompanying message. Someone had trespassed on his lands to plant _this_? Why.

He opened the envelope and withdrew the letter.

“ _Mr. Hope,_

_The Pottsfield Chamber of Commerce cordially invites you to join the festivities during the annual Pottsfield Harvest Celebration. This celebration will take place during the day and through the night of the full moon, and you are welcome to attend at any time. Dances, food, drink, and good company will be offered throughout the event._

_You need not bring anything but your own person, and are welcome to bring any guests you may wish._

_We would love to see you again._

_Yours truly,_

_The Assembled Citizens of Pottsfield_ ”

…This place made no sense.

He read the letter again, trying to decipher it. Either it was intended for another recipient entirely, in which case, why would it be left in _his_ woods, or it was some kind of backhanded insult.

Or perhaps it was intended to be some kind of trap, though he had difficulty imagining anyone believing that he might actually fall for something such as this. Having successfully yanked the wool over the Beast’s eyes once, the god had apparently took him to be a complete imbecile.

With a growl, he stuffed the missive back where it came from and strode back towards Pottsfield, stopping when the fields came into view again. The moon was rising; this was around the time that he would start singing, any other night. This time, though, he stood with the garland clenched in one hand, and gestured forward with the other. The North Wind screamed past him and swept through the fields, flattening a swath of wheat as it went. Then he crossed his arms and waited.

Sure enough, the god made his appearance shortly thereafter, moving slowly through the fields and towards his woods. The wind made the ribbons of his maypole skin rustle and flutter, and the Beast tried to ignore the way that his gut twisted at the first sight of him.

The god stopped a ways back from the woods, eyes roving over the dark trees before landing on the Beast.

“Just what is the meaning of this?“ the Beast demanded, brandishing the garland like a weapon. He stalked several steps forwards, his footfalls slowed by a hesitance and nervousness he tried not to show.

The god’s head turned a bit to one side. "I’m afraid I’m not sure I follow?” he replied, and the disingenuity of it all further irked the Beast.

Well, apparently he would have to spell out the damn thing. Silly to expect the god to admit to anything, really.

“Why have you sent your people to trespass in my woods, and to leave such ludicrous items in my lands? You have no right!” he snarled. He took one more step before he could bring himself to walk no further, and hurled the garland back into Pottsfield.

The god peered down at the flowers and note that the North Wind caught up and dumped at his feet. Ribbons reached out to pick the item up, and he glanced at the letter inside. A faint smell, something like warm brown sugar or toasted almonds, somehow managed to drift upwind, and the Beast twitched. He strangled the urge to make the appalling show of weakness of taking a step back.

“Oh,” the god sighed, and the Beast was almost jealous of how good he was at feigning wistfulness. “Well, this is embarrassing. I’m sorry, Lord of the Wastes, it seems as though my citizens have gotten it into their heads to try show you their hospitality.”

The Beast’s eyes narrowed. Trying to pass the buck? “And what reason could there possibly be for them to come to that decision?” he asked.

“Well, I expect they want to thank you.”

The Beast blinked. “Thank me,” he repeated flatly.

“For rescuing them. Many wouldn’t be here now if not for you, after all. And for the music, too, I suspect. They simply adore your songs. You’ll be positively inundated with requests, if they meet you.”

“Tch, I would have expected you to inspire more loyalty in your subject than that.”

“Loyalty?”

“Yes. Your own people, apparently enamored enough with a monster to stray from their safe little haven to leave a message for it without any permission? Sounds like trouble in paradise. Are you slipping up, Harvest King?”

The god seemed to shiver, and the faint warm scent from Pottsfield thickened, deepened, until the air seemed saturated with molasses. “B- Ah, ahem. Well, they can be spirited, at times,” the god murmured, and the Beast smothered the ache in his souls evoked by the obvious fondness in the Harvest King’s voice.

He opted to focus on the more puzzling part of the god’s reaction. “…Are you damaged?” the Beast asked, cocking his head to one side.

“No? Healthy as a horse, really. Or do you mean in terms of mental capacity?” the god asked with a grin, as if inviting the Beast to join in on a joke.

“I would not presume to cast aspersions,” the Beast replied dismissively. “I was merely asking because the air is… Well, it’s rather similar to the way that copper saturates the air when an animal is gravely injured.”

“Oh. No, it’s not due to anything like that, I assure you. I’m perfectly fine. And flattered that you would care for my wellbeing.”

“I am still owed a debt. It is in my best interest to know if I will be able to collect on it,” the Beast muttered.

“Yes, of course. You can rest assured I will be at your service for a long time to come,” the god replied, dipping something like a bow.

The Beast stared silently out of the trees, trying to determine how much the god was mocking him, just now.

“Ah, but, back to the matter at hand,” the god gestured with the garland he still held. “I apologize for the trespass, neighbor. I’ll make sure that my citizens know that they aren’t to disturb your lands.”

“Mmn. Good,” the Beast replied.

“The invitation still stands, of course.”

“Because it would be impolite to retract it after it was already received? Well, not to fret. I’ll leave your little celebration in peace,” the Beast replied, shrugging. “You need not worry about my presence or voice despoiling the occasion.”

“No!” the god cried. The Beast flinched back, and the molasses smell evaporated entirely. “Ah. No, I- Forgive me. It’s not… Everyone would be- _I_ would be happy to have you there. It would be a pleasure, and an honor. You are welcome in Pottsfield at any time. Truly.”

The Beast sidled back, further into the depths of his woods. “As you say. Give my regards to whomever sent the invitation,” he said.

“I will. Will… will you sing tonight?” the god asked.

“No. No, not tonight,” the Beast replied, and sank back into the cold and dark.

* * *

The Beast took a few days to attend to matters at the further ranges of his realm, to sing darkly to a new homestead that had been established near the eastern border of the wilds, to lure a lost soul deep into the heart of his realm, to check on the progress of his lantern-bearer. She burned brightly, throwing herself into her work with vigor. If he didn’t know better, he really would have thought all her grudges and rage were in his lantern, blazing and unwavering. Her hopes, for justice, for vengeance, were not as sweet as some of the lantern-bearers before her, but they were plentiful.

She seemed almost eager to see him, or at least to tell him of those who had wronged her. To tell him where they may be found, and what she would best like done to them. The Beast found it amusing, that he might incidentally fulfill his end of the bargain, after all. What she was asking for was likely to be the fate of those near his forest in any case.

He returned to the area near Pottsfield within the week. The moon was still two or three days away from being full, and perhaps he should have waited until after the harvest celebration of theirs to stop by. As it was, he was greeted by a large signpost that had been hammered into the ground just beyond the border of his lands and faced the woods.

It was dominated by a large red arrow pointing towards the town proper, as if he needed help in locating that blight upon the land. The rest of it read something about a Harvest Celebration and all being welcome to attend, especially Mr. Hope. The last part had been added in a different color of paint.

Well, at least they left it on their land, this time.

The Beast couldn’t imagine that the god of this place could be as unaware of this gesture as he claimed to be for the garland. Not only was the sign huge and garish, but since the Beast had not been in the area for a while, it had likely been in place for several days. Which meant the god had at least condoned, if not encouraged, his followers’ attempts to lure the Beast into their town.

He should be made to answer for that.

The Beast stalked along the borders of the town, peering out into the fields. It was still daylight, and if the harvest was as close as they claimed, then there should be people tending the crops.

It was easy enough to spot the god, towering above his followers, and after a short period of waiting, he was both close enough and alone.

“Coughing,” the Beast said flatly, and almost smirked when the god jerked like he had been electrocuted.

The eyes of the god fell on him immediately, and a grin followed. “Lord of the Wastes! It’s wonderful to see you again! …Pardon me, though, did you just say ‘coffin’? I’m afraid we don’t go in much for coffins here. Makes the raising more complicated than it needs to be. And most folks- aside from Mr. Zeb, I believe- are of the opinion that sleeping in one would be rather gauche. I could ask him if you could borrow it, if you wanted?”

“…No, I said ‘coughing’,” the Beast replied, enunciating more clearly.

“Oh! I see. …Were you trying to cough, then?”

“It was an attempt to get your attention. Mortals sometimes…” the Beast shook his head. “Forget it.”

“Well, you have my attention now, so it succeeded.”

“I suppose. I saw that sign of yours,” the Beast stated, gesturing towards the area it had been planted.

The god’s eyes flicked away and then back to the Beast. “Ah, yes. That. I assure you, it wasn’t made from wood from your forest, Voice of the Night.”

“That is not my concern. I am referring to the fact that you seem to be, at the very least, condoning the efforts you claim are the work of your townsfolk.”

“Well, I did say that you are always welcome, did I not? I may not have chosen those ways to communicate it myself, but… Well.” The god shrugged, as if that was some kind of explanation instead of just a very diverting sight to see done by something with so many limbs.

“So you admit that you wish for me to leave my lands and set foot into your territory.”

“I do.”

“And you expect me to take you at your word- no, you haven’t even given that. You expect me to do this under the assumption that I will not come to harm after leaving myself vulnerable in such a way,” the Beast said flatly.

The god’s ribbons stilled all at once. “I… Lord of the Wastes, I swear to you, nothing in Pottsfield will harm you. I guarantee-”

“Yes, very nicely said,” the Beast interrupted. “I am not unfamiliar with promises. But, surely, if you are so sincere in your sentiment…”

“I am,” the god said simply.

“Then you would not hesitate to offer the same gesture of… faith, would you?”

“The same?”

The Beast smiled thinly- not that the god would be able to see it- and sucked in light from the surrounding area, plunging the bright afternoon day into dim overcast shadows. “Of abandoning your home territory to place yourself at the mercy of another, of course,” he purred in his smoothest voice. He stepped further back into the shadows, and beckoned. Let the god have a taste of his own medicine. “Come now, won’t you step into my parlour?”

The god looked shocked, and the Beast felt a vicious little rush of glee. It wasn’t so easy to be assured and comfortable when put in _that_ position, was it now? Maybe now he would stop with the brazenly transparent ploys of his.

The god let out a shuddering breath and glanced back at Pottsfield. The Beast half expected him to leave without a word, but instead the god turned back around and met the Beast’s eyes. “I… I’m afraid I have a number of tasks still to attend to, today,” he replied, and the Beast almost scoffed. “But… how about tonight? Would you show me your home then?”

What.

The light bled back into the area, and the Beast blinked. “I was not joking, you know,” he warned.

“Neither am I. You’re right, it’s completely unreasonable to expect you to place trust in me if I am unwilling to extend you the same courtesy.”

“And so you mean to say that you are willing to venture into the winter woods. At night. Alone.”

“Well, I’ll hardly be alone. You’ll be there too, after all. And I can’t think of a better way to view your woods than by moonlight.”

The Beast stared out at the god in disbelief. After a moment, he managed to gather himself. “Very well, Harvest King. Return here at moonrise.” He was setting himself up to be stood up, he knew. But this would either give him ammunition in any future run-ins they had, or would drive the god to avoid interacting with the Beast altogether.

Which was the goal he had for coming here, wasn’t it?

“I’ll see you then, Hope-Eater,” was the reply that drifted to him as he took his leave, accompanied by a whiff of molasses.

* * *

The Beast had debated on whether he should bother showing up at all. If he didn’t go there to witness the god’s cowardice, though, the god could always claim that he _had_ intended to follow the Beast of Eternal Darkness into its lair.

So there he stood, on the edge of his territory, watching as the edge of the moon broke over the horizon.

All without a sign of the god’s tall and distinctive silhouette to be seen. Of course.

But then there was a rustle through the corn plants that grew beside the woods, and a black cat trotted out of the stalks with its tail held high and waving like a banner. The Beast stared as it walked right to the edge of the woods and sat, curling its tail around its feet. He had almost convinced himself that it was simply a coincidental, unrelated animal when the creature spoke, in that familiar voice, all without opening its mouth.

“Good evening, neighbor. May I come in?” the god of Pottsfield asked, meeting the Beast’s eyes with gleaming green ones of his own.

“Wh- I-” the Beast stammered stupidly for a moment before managing to pull together some semblance of composure. “…You may.”

The cat grinned, and the Beast half expected it to lick its chops. “Thank you. I hope you don’t mind me choosing a different means of conveyance than usual. I thought that it would be wise to pick a form less likely to get hopelessly entangled in a shrub. And, well, it’s a bit more subtle, too. My people really are very enthused about you, and I thought that you might object to me bringing along an entourage.” The god crossed the border as easily as if he were walking over his own threshold.

“So no one knows where you’ve gone?”

“Well, no. Though I did leave a note, in case I’m not back by sunrise. Otherwise they would fret.”

…He was nearly certain that the god knew exactly the kind of being the Beast was. Was he attempting to lure the Beast into following his instincts, so that the god could justify retaliation?

“I see,” the Beast murmured, folding his hands. He scrambled for something, some way to react to this, some kind of plan, anything. “Would you like a tour, then?” Brilliant. Yes, come marvel at the miles and miles of barren trees and snow and ice. That will be sure to impress the Harvest King.

“I would like that very much. Though, ah, I feel I should warn you. I’ve never really gone any significant distance from Pottsfield. I’m not sure how well my vessel will be able to function, away from it. So, it’s possible that I may keel over, or something.”

The Beast looked over the cat-skin, with its frail bones and beating heart. “I suppose we shall see,” he replied, and began to walk deeper into the woods. There was the mill nearby. That may be of some interest to the god. And the waterfall; that was fairly close as well. They could follow the path of the river.

The god followed beside him, a small shadow amongst the deeper ones of his woods. They travelled silently, weaving between the trees, for almost two miles before the cat’s front legs buckled and it staggered to a halt.

“Oh,” the god’s voice said, and it sounded strange. Shallow, somehow. “I… I can’t feel Pottsfield. That’s never… happened before.”

The Beast stopped and watched as the cat hunched up and looked around, ears flattening.

“I can’t even tell what direction it is, anymore.” He shivered. “I… I feel…”

“Lost?” the Beast asked, and the god looked up at him. “Welcome to my home, Harvest King. Does it meet expectations?”

“It is… like nothing else,” the god replied.

“Mmn. I suppose that is apt enough.” The Beast crouched down to be more on level with the cat and tilted his head to one side. “I wonder how much of you is here, and how much got left behind…” he mused.

He reached out towards the cat, and the god did not flinch away from him, only watching unblinkingly. The Beast’s hand just brushed the whiskers of the cat-skin. The fleeting point of contact let him draw away the illusions that had gradually draped over the Harvest King like so many cobwebs. The oppressive looming feeling of the trees and the maddening sense of utter disorientation lessened, and the moon and stars in the clear night sky seemed to reorganize themselves into recognizable orientation and constellations once more.

The Beast drew his hand back and straightened up. He pulled the illusions back into his chest, where they wriggled and settled. He fancied that they felt almost like there was still a fleeting trace of autumn-warmth to them. The god’s sense of his own land must have kept them from fully affecting him until now; he had accumulated quite a few of them. They must have been attracted to the god somehow.The Beast made a mental note to put them back up when he was finished with this. “There. I cannot return your connection to your land, but that should ease things.”

“Ah. Thank you, Hope Eater,” the god said, seeming to perk up significantly. “That’s much better.”

“…You are my guest, after all,” the Beast muttered. “In any case, you should be able to find your way back to Pottsfield, now.”

“Is the tour already over?” the Harvest King asked, ears flicking forward. “I mean, that certainly was impressive, don’t get me wrong. But I’m sure there must be more of your home to see.”

The Beast blinked, then looked out into his forest. “If for some reason you wish to follow me still, then I will not stop you.”

He continued along the route he had been following, and the god fell into step beside him. The mill it was, then. They were almost there already. And soon enough, they were.

Silver spilled bright and luminous over the ruins of the building, flowed over the moldering water wheel and disappeared into the black and gaping holes that were the windows and gaps in the building’s exterior.

“Oh! This is the mill, is it? It looks just like Miss Clara said,” the god said cheerily.

“Miss Clara?”

“Yes, she found this place, back in the day. She was one of those who went out scouting, and brought back the lantern, when you were… indisposed.”

The Beast’s shoulders tightened. “I do not owe-”

“Oh, no. Of course not. I was just making conversation,” the god replied. “It’s charming, truly.”

The Beast almost snorted at that. Laying it on a bit thick. “It was used to grind the Edelwoods to oil, before-” The Beast gestured at the smashed wheel. “-that happened. Now it’s just a landmark.”

“Well, if you need to borrow the use of a pair of hands or a dozen for repairs, I happen to know some fine workers,” the Harvest King said.

“Mmn,” the Beast hummed noncommittally. He strode down the path to the building. “It’s a handy thing, truly, even without the wheel working. If someone stumbles across it, they tend to hole up inside. Waiting for rescue, perhaps. And then they slowly fade away, mere miles from the edge of the woods.” The Beast chuckled and ran his hand over the edge of a jagged split in the wall. “One planted roots right there in the building. Went right through the floorboards and cellar, and through this wall, here.”

“I imagine that would make it difficult to harvest.”

“Oh, yes. It probably was. I’m not sure who was bearing the lantern for me, then,” the Beast said with a shrug. “It’s long gone now, anyway. Even the roots. Nothing but this scar to show for it, and the snow will cover even that up, sometimes.”

“Waste not, want not,” the god commented.

“Hmn. Perhaps for you. It’s not in my nature to be satisfied. I rather think that you would be able to waste as much as you like without going wanting. And I’ll always be hungry, no matter how much I consume, down to the last scrap.”

“Fair point,” the Harvest King conceded. “Though I would not go so far as to say I never go wanting.”

“Well, I suppose there must be something that you want, now. To drive you to go as far as to follow where I lead you.” The Beast turned his eyes back on the god. “Morbid curiosity, maybe. Amusement. Perhaps pride, or arrogance.”

“I wish to spend time with you,” the god answered. “For us to better understand one another.”

The Beast snorted. “I doubt I have changed so much in the years since you last knew me. What else is there to understand?”

“That’s what I’m here to find out now, isn’t it?”

“Very well, have it your way,” the Beast said. He drew his hand back from its resting place on the old mill. “Unless you feel a burning need to claw up what remains of the furniture in there, I think we can move on. There are a few more things you might find… charming.”

“I think I can restrain myself,” the god replied with a twitch of his whiskers.  “By all means, lead the way.”

The Beast set off along the path of the river. The god followed alongside him one more.

There was very little he knew better than the many ways that people moved as they journeyed through his woods. The ways that they lifted their feet or drifted closer or farther from their traveling companions spoke volumes about their mental state, about how soon they could be planted. And while the Harvest King was rather different from all the others he had welcomed into his forest, the Beast was still quite certain of one thing; the god was walking closer beside him, now.

Was it perhaps anxiety? It would be understandable for him to become more uncomfortable the further he ventured from his realms.

It was almost certainly not aggression; the cat-skin could not harm him, and there was no other material the god could make use of in the Winter Woods. The Beast would be able to seize the animal and break its neck without much difficulty, if he chose.

He wondered if that would extinguish the part of the god that was inhabiting the cat, or if he would be able to puppet a dead and broken body as easily as a breathing one. His other skins were certainly not possessed of life.

Slowly, the incline of the ground grew steeper, and the ground became more rocky. The trees began to trade bare and empty branches for tufts of bristling green needles that clung to the tops of almost impossibly tall and slender trunks, vying desperately for what little sunlight filtered through the clouds. The trees swayed and creaked in the slight breeze, as if remarking on the passers-by. The Beast paid it no heed as passed between the closely-spaced trunks.

They finally crested a ridge, a large rock outcropping that overlooked a deep ravine. And from across the gap, a wide ribbon of water plunged down the face of a cliff and into the depths of the night-black gorge. Icicles hung from every surface of the rock face, glistening in the moonlight like teeth. Mist kicked up by the spray froze and glittered through the air.

Perhaps the most striking aspect of the whole sight was the fact that it was completely silent. There was no rush of water to be heard; there had been no warning as they had climbed the crest. Behind them, the sea of trees still shifted and creaked.

“It’s incredible,” the Harvest King said, and though he listened for it, the Beast could not hear any derision in his tone.

“Yes, I suppose it would be more impressive than a ruined mill,” the Beast replied.

“It’s almost hard to believe it’s the same watercourse.”

“The very same. The waterfall feeds the river that runs past the mill and leads into the lake.”

“You have a lake?”

“Oh yes. On the other side of my territory.”

“Your lands are varied, indeed. …Not that I’m an expert in these thing by any means, but aren’t waterfalls supposed to make noise?” the god asked.

“They do,” the Beast answered, and raised his hand. As if flipping on a switch, the roar of water plummeting off the cliff and plunging into the frothing, freezing pool below suddenly crackled into existence. The Beast curled his fingers closed and the sound vanished once more. “But altering the way that sound and light falls in my woods is a terribly useful skill.” He flicked his wrist and then the thunder of the falls seemed to be coming from far off to the east of them.

“That seems like it would be very disorienting.”

“Incredibly. You’d be amazed at how many people decide to rely on sound to keep their bearings to a landmark.”

“A very useful and impressive talent, Lord of the Wastes. You do more than live up to the stories they tell about you.”

“Mmn, yes, I would hate to disappoint them.”

“No danger of that, I’m sure.” The god glanced from the waterfall to the Beast, then back again. He settled to sit on the ground and curled his tail around himself.

The Beast looked out over the ravine and felt the ice-laden breath of the falls riffle through the fur of his cloak. There was a moment of quiet, as the moon and stars shone down from overhead.

“…Lord of the Wastes,” the god finally spoke, and the Beast turned his head to watch him. The cat inhaled deeply, even though the god still did not use its mouth to speak. “I know that I have wronged you, and that I have given you little reason to trust me. I am deeply sorry for that, and I hope that I can one day make amends. I would… If you are willing, I would like it if it were possible for us to be friends again.”

 _Again?_ The Beast blinked at the god. “If I was going to harm you, I would have done so by now.”

“What?”

“You need not attempt to ingratiate yourself to me.”

“That is not my intention. I merely… I wish to repair the damage that has been done. That I have done.”

“To what ends? What benefit would that bring you?” the Beast asked.

“I want to be friends again, as I said.”

The Beast stared at the god for a moment, then turned his face back to look at the waterfall. The songs that the god had left in his heart stirred and roiled, and he clenched a hand in frustration.

“…I will not hurt you again, Hope-Eater. I swear.”

The Beast snapped his gaze down to the god. “I am aware I am in no position to demand honesty, but I would thank you to put a little more effort into your lies than that,” he said tightly.

The cat drew back, as if startled. “I am not lying to you.”

The Beast snorted. “Even leaving aside any other considerations, I know that you will act to defend Pottsfield against a threat. And I am the Beast of Eternal Darkness. The logic is not difficult to follow.”

“I do not believe you pose any threat to Pottsfield.”

The Beast’s eyes narrowed. “Then you think very highly of your ability to protect your town, for one who has already watched it burn to the ground once.”

The god flinched, but straightened back up again. “I do not mean to say that you would be unable to threaten Pottsfield. I meant that I do not think you harbor any intention to harm it. You have already saved many of my citizens from being lost forever, at great cost to yourself, and when I gave you no good reason to do so.”

The Beast was silent for a beat of time. “I owed you a debt,” he finally replied.

“That is true,” the god admitted. “It may be just wishful thinking on my part, but I do not believe that was your only reason.”

“I cannot stop you from believing what you desire to believe,” the Beast said, and looked to the sky. “The night is getting late. I should bring you back to your town.”

“…If you say so.”

The Beast led the god back, through the pines and then the lowlands, until the trees finally began to thin and fields of corn and wheat could be seen through the gaps, gleaming in the pearl grey light before dawn. The Beast stopped there.

The god walked past him, then turned and dipped his head low, bending his front legs. “Thank you, Hope-Eater,” he said, and the voice was once more rich and warm and resonant. Once more the master of his domain. “Truly. Your home is beautiful, and it was an honour to be shown a part of it.”

“Are you going to demand that I return the gesture, now? That I attend your harvest celebration?” the Beast asked.

“If you are not comfortable leaving your territory, I will not ask you to do so. But you are always welcome to visit, any time you desire to,” the god replied. “I would love to see you.”

“…And this was not a favor that you granted me. You still owe me a debt.”

“Of course, of course. You may call on me at any moment.”

“Then you will likely hear from me again soon,” the Beast replied.

The cat’s ears pricked forward, as did its whiskers. “I look forward to it. Goodnight, Hope-Eater.”

“Goodnight, Harvest King.”

————————-

The community of course found out about Enoch’s midnight jaunt through the woods. According to everyone he spoke to, (which was nearly the entire population, as they were all very anxious to see Enoch again) they had awoken after moonrise to the feeling of something significant being missing. No one had been quite certain of what it was, to begin with. It hadn’t felt frightening or wrong, per se, just… quiet. Like all the music had been drawn out of the world.

Enoch felt badly for worrying them; he truly hadn’t given much thought to how his absence might have affected them, and that had been dreadful of him. He had been so occupied with the opportunity to converse with the Beast again that his responsibility had fallen by the wayside. They waved off his apologies, however.

“Oh, pish posh, Enoch. We’re hardly helpless,” the Widow Mathers scoffed.

“And it was easy enough to find your note,” Miss Clara Deen added.

“Yes! We all read that, and were very much relieved. And you were really with Mr. Hope, Enoch? That’s so exciting! How is he? Will he come visit us again sometime?” Miss Elizabelle trilled.

“He, um, he’s doing well. He gave me a tour,” Enoch said.

“A tour! How wonderful!” Miss Elizabelle sighed, and several other Pottsfielders nodded in agreement. “Of course Mr. Hope wouldn’t accept an invitation without issuing one of his own.”

“Ah, I’m afraid he hasn’t accepted the invitation, Miss Elizabelle. He may be… busy.”

“Oh. Well, I’m certain he’ll be able to make some time. No need to fret.” Miss Elizabelle patted one of his paws reassuringly.

“We can always hope,” Enoch replied.

“Yes, well, now that’s sorted, we’ve still got a lot to do before the celebration can begin,” Mr. Hapsborough said, looking meaningfully around at the gathered people. Slowly the crowd began to disperse again, hurrying off in the dawning morning light.

The Parson came to see him after the rest of the crowd had filtered away to see to the preparations. “Enoch, well, with the reappearance of Mr. Hope, I was wondering… If there was anything you wanted to do with the branch? I still have it stored away, and I wasn’t sure if, if he may want it back?” Parson Bleak asked, fiddling nervously with the straw covering his hands.

Enoch froze at that for a moment, unwelcome memory crashing down on him all at once. He had almost grown used to the sight of the Beast’s missing antler, but the reminder of just where it had gone to made his center ache somewhere deep in the middle.

“I…” He hesitated. It was tempting, dreadfully tempting, to keep the antler hidden away, out of sight and out of mind. The Beast would almost certainly find no comfort in its return, just awful memories and further reason to avoid Enoch and Pottsfield entirely. But it was not _his_ extremity to lock away, and the reasons he had for keeping it were only selfish ones. He had taken it in a moment of hopeless, mistaken rage, but keeping it now would mean he purposefully decided to deprive the Beast of something that was rightfully his. That would be an abominable act. And the thought of the Beast someday coming to Pottsfield and discovering the antler like a dirty secret Enoch tried to sweep under the rug… “Yes, thank you, Parson. You’re right, I should return that. If you could please fetch it for me?”

“Certainly, Enoch.” Parson Bleak took his leave.

Enoch heaved a sigh and shivered after the man left, trying to ignore the part of him that told him he still had time to retract his decision. He could do it now, before the antler was brought out, before he had to see it again.

He focused on the other issue that this solution raised. That being, Enoch had no way of contacting the Beast, short of haunting the edges of Pottsfield and hoping the other might show up. The Beast had said he would return soon, but _soon_ could mean any number of things, and there was very little Enoch wished to do less than to drift along the edges of the fields, carrying the antler, for days. And if the Beast saw him with it before he had a chance to explain…

He could have his people watch the woods instead, but the thought of having someone else further involved in the matter was very uncomfortable. He didn’t even know if the Beast would come close enough for his citizens to spot. He’d certainly only seemed willing to approach Enoch when he was alone.

He might be able to try another way of watching, however. Enoch hopped down from the barrel and pushed into his barn through the ajar door. He rooted around in the jars and cupboards until he found what he was looking for. A small package of seeds. Black-eyed susans. Those would do.

By the time he found the seeds and slipped into his maypole skin for a bit more manual dexterity, the parson had returned with the antler. Enoch still couldn’t bring himself to look at the object directly, and rather rudely avoided meeting Parson Bleak’s eyes when he asked him to please leave the branch on the crates on against the inside western wall of the barn. The man was blessedly understanding enough or polite enough to avoid mentioning it, and left Enoch in peace shortly thereafter.

Enoch left the barn and headed back out through the fields with the seeds, the knowledge of the branch and its location sitting heavily on his mind all the while. Along the border, he planted a handful of the black-eyed susans, one every hundred yards or so, tapping into the wellspring of his power to nudge the seeds into full bloom.

Then, he stretched his awareness out and over, wriggling into the flowers that now dotted the border. Yes, they worked well enough as eyes. A bit lower to the ground than he was used to, and the spectrum of color was off, but he could see light and movement, and that was enough. It was disorienting, to be using so many vessels at once, but hopefully this would not be a long-term arrangement. The flowers would not last long at the edge of winter, in any case.

It felt like spying; it was spying, really. But there wasn’t any better option.

He was simultaneously gratified and stricken with dread when, less than a day later, the ominous shadow of the Beast darkened the view of one of the black-eyed susans along the northeastern edge of Pottsfield.

It was the day of the Harvest Celebration, and Enoch felt hope lurch against the anxiety curling in his center. Could the Beast be intending to attend, after all?

No. Certainly not in the daylight. Perhaps he was curious. Or wanted to talk to Enoch about something.

In any case, any inclinations he had to come visit would certainly not remain after Enoch did what he had to do.

He dithered for a few more moments than was absolutely necessary about how to go about this. The Beast seemed less threatened by the cat-skin, but he had no good way of carrying the antler in it. The maypole it was, then. He took the still-oozing antler with a blind feel around and a wince, and left for the northeastern fields. He held the branch behind his back.

The Beast was still there by the time he arrived, and Enoch snapped off the strands of awareness that he had attached to the flowers. “Hello, Hope-Eater.”

The Beast cocked his head at him. “Well, there’s no new sign posted, not that I have seen. And no written invitation, either. Am I to assume you are here to deliver a singing telegram, then?”

Enoch let out the first breath of a chuckle before he could help himself. He reflexively tightened his grip on the antler behind his back, and fought down another urge to just keep it there and let the Beast continue to drawl at him so familiarly. “I’m afraid not, Lord of the Wastes. I’ll have to keep your suggestion in mind for later.” Assuming there ever was a later.

“Tch. Shouldn’t have given you the idea.”

“I… actually, I need to return something to you, Hope-Eater. I wish there was a better way to go about this, but… if there is, I can’t think of one. I’m sorry, Hope-Eater,” Enoch said, and brought the antler into view, holding it out.

The Beast’s eyes flared with color and he stumbled backwards. “You kept it,” he whispered, his voice a croak. The multicolored eyes vanished, and the black silhouette of the Beast was barely visible in the gloom of his woods without the bright circles, but Enoch could still see that he was shaking. After a moment, the Beast opened his eyes again, and this time they were white once more. “I suppose I should be flattered. Tell me, was it an impressive addition to your mantle? Certainly it’s a conversation piece like no other.”

Horror shot through Enoch like a bolt of lightning. “Beast, no. No, please, it’s not like that. It would never be like that, I swear. This is… I kept it because the only worse thing would have been discarding it like… like it didn’t matter. Like it wasn’t important. I took it from you, and I had no way to give it back, and every time I see it I remember…” He remembered the way that the Beast screamed, the way that his body cracked and broke under Enoch’s rage. He remembered how much he had wanted to rip and tear and hurt the Beast, who had come only to help when things had been most dire. “I remember what I did. I remember how wrong I was. I’ve never regretted anything more, Beast. I… I should have returned this to you sooner, but I was a coward. I didn’t want to face it again. I’m sorry. I don’t know if there’s anything you can do with it, now, but it rightfully belongs to you.”

The Beast stared out at him from the trees and said nothing. But he had not yet vanished back into the wilds.

“I can leave it at the edge of the woods, if you want to retrieve it after I leave. Or I could have one of my citizens carry it further into the woods, if you’d prefer,” Enoch added weakly.

“…No. I’ll take it now,” the Beast said.

Enoch’s head jerked up. “Really?”

“Yes. Unless you’re planning on collecting the matching set?”

“No! No, absolutely not. Never,” Enoch swore.

“Well then,” the Beast said, and he took a few steps forward. Then a few more. And he held out his hand, palm up. Every line in his body was taut as a bowstring, but there he stood, at the edge of his territory and Enoch’s, and he did not make a break for it when Enoch came closer.

Enoch marveled at that, as he got almost close enough to touch- _close enough to grab and hurt and break_ , the antler in his grip reminded him, and his guts twisted. The Beast was giving him a measure of trust that Enoch had done nothing to prove he deserved, and it was incredible and shame-inducing all at once. He lifted the antler with a pair of ribbons and carefully placed it in the Beast’s hand. That done, Enoch drew away. The Beast’s eyes never left him.

Enoch backed several more yards away before the Beast moved, bringing his hand to his chest and sidling backwards into the woods. “I’m sure you could have gotten a king’s ransom for this, you know,” he finally said, far away enough that he was mainly visible as twin points of light in the gloom.

Enoch’s ribbons twisted around each other, curling anxiously. “There’s nothing I could have been offered that would have made me give it to anyone but you.”

“Hmn. Well, it’s been taken off your hands now, in any case.”

“If there’s anything I can do to help or…” Enoch trailed off, not sure of what to say.

The Beast’s eyes, and presumably his head, tilted to one side. “What else is there that you could possibly do?”

“…I don’t know,” Enoch replied, lowering his head.

“Then this will have to do, won’t it?” the Beast said. “Go back to your town, Harvest King. Celebrate with your people. I have matters to attend.”

“Will you…” _Come back?_ Enoch swallowed the words. He wasn’t sure he wanted to hear the answer, nor if he even had any right to ask. “Goodbye, Hope-Eater. Swift travels.”

“Goodbye.” The eyes vanished.

Enoch went back to his town. What else was there to do?

* * *

It was clear that the Harvest King wanted something from him, the Beast thought as he carried his disembodied antler though the woods. He was going out of his way to try to further draw the Beast in. Accepting his contrition as genuine would be foolish, beyond foolish, but the god did desire something enough to put so much effort into appearing remorseful. Enough to display vulnerability, feigned or not, in front of the Beast.

The Beast wished he knew what it was that was so wished for. It did not seem that the god wanted him to stay away. The Beast had already amply demonstrated his willingness to avoid Pottsfield if told to, and the god of the place was certainly smart enough to realize that the bizarre invitations and reception he had been receiving were not enough to drive him away.

The Beast pushed open the door of the mill and began snapping off the thinner portions of the antler. Pain started to throb through his head at each little crack. The antler was still oozing oil, still a part of his physical form despite having been separated from the rest of him for years upon years. He truly was a piecemeal creature, wasn’t he? It was a good thing that the god hadn’t realized it.

Perhaps it was entertainment he was after. It must be amusing, to be able to make the Beast come slinking back like a dog that had been kicked once already. And funny, to be able to make a monster flinch and flee before him. The terror of the Unknown, cowering like a child. Hilarious.

The Beast fetched a bottle and stuffed the antler-bits into the grinder.He was not strong, and grinding material using the hand-cranked device he had scrounged up was more tiring than he would like, but the job would get done. He began to turn the crank and hissed in agony as the pieces were further pulverized. A trickle of black ichor began to drip into the bottle.

If the god wanted to laugh at him, did it matter? The ache in his head seemed to shoot down through his chest, and the Beast faltered for a moment in the grinding. The pain subsided and he began again.

It didn’t matter, truly. It was true that the Beast had a nearly universally fearsome reputation beyond Pottsfield, but that was simply a matter of it being accurate, not of him cultivating a specific image. It didn’t make any kind of difference, what the Harvest King might think of him. His reputation had never been of any great concern. He had no reason to subject himself to being a laughingstock, but no real reason to avoid it, either. It made no difference to him.

The bottle was full, the grinder empty. The Beast capped the container and headed back out into the woods.

If the god wanted the chance to brutalize him again, then he would have to make a move at some point. He might manage to snap off a few more pieces of him, but the Beast could use the debt he was owed to try to make him stop. And even if the god did not honor his word, the Beast would probably still survive it. The lantern would never leave his borders, so the god wouldn’t be able to extinguish it. And then he would finally know what the god had been after.

The Beast stopped near a freshly-planted Edelwood, one that still had recognizably human parts to it. He withdrew his dagger and sawed off a hank of thick, springy hair the color of ripe wheat. After a moment’s contemplation, he sliced off one of the blackened, frostbitten thumbs as well and took it with him.

It was a tempting thought. If he took the bait, he would finally know just what the trap was. Perhaps a reckless course of action, but the uncertainty he was dealing with was maddening. He’d rather have it over and done with.

The Beast followed the sound of axe blows to reach his lantern-bearer. “I bring gifts, vengeance-seeker.” He held out the severed hair and finger. “I thought you may enjoy a small memento.”

The woman’s eyes widened at the sight of the body parts. “Is that…” Her lips twitched up in a smile and a little huff of laughter escaped from behind her teeth. “You got that son of a bitch. Did he suffer?”

“I am not known for bestowing swift ends,” the Beast replied, as his lantern bearer took the tokens and curled her fingers tight around them.

“Good,” she said. “Do you know what they call this, demon?”

The Beast cocked his head to one side. “Murder?”

The lantern-bearer smiled again. “A good start.”

“Mmn. Oh, and before I forget…” The Beast produced the bottle of oil. “Another small token. There are so many of them still left, after all. You want to keep your hatred burning, don’t you?”

“Ah. Yeah. You’re right.” She took the bottle without asking any further questions. Good. She’d be useful for a while longer, then. “You’ll get the rest of them soon?”

“Oh, I would have no fear of that,” the Beast replied, and slipped back into the darkness. Once he was out of sight, he moved quickly away. This lantern bearer was eager, and she likely wouldn’t waste time in filling the reservoir- the Beast grunted and staggered when a fresh wave of pain crashed over him. Yes, there it was, he thought as he clutched at his head and slowly slid to the ground. This was going to be agonizing.

The Beast felt the what was either the wood or bone of his skull shift and _grind,_ reshaping itself into a long-ago configuration. His stub of an antler cracked and split, growing outwards in a handful of long, intertwining branches, and the Beast choked back a keen, squeezing his eyes shut. Pain blazed through him, obliterating thought. He was reduced to huddling in the snow and waiting for it to be done.

Finally, finally, the agony subsided, and the Beast remained on the ground for a few more moments, gasping for breath that he didn’t strictly need. It provided something for him to focus on. The Beast slowly uncurled his hands from his head and got back to his feet. He traced his fingers over the newly-grown antler and sighed. It had been such a long time since he’d been whole and in one piece.

He supposed that he would have to see if he would remain as such, after tonight.

* * *

The Beast stood at the edge of his woods and stared out over the darkened fields to watch the glows of lamps and bonfires in the harvest town. His souls tugged at him, trying to pull towards that place, and the Beast grimaced. He would have hoped the fool things would have learned better by now.

But he hadn’t either, had he?

The Beast stepped over the border. When no cataclysm befell him, he began to make his way through the fields. One way or another, he would get the answer to his question.

The Beast’s presence was apparently not expected, because he had managed to walk all the up to the edge of the circle of light cast by the celebrations without anyone once looking out into the darkness. The Harvest King was on the far side of the flames, staring blankly off at one building and seeming so preoccupied that the Beast wondered if the maypole skin was currently unoccupied. The Beast stayed there for several moments, watching, before one of the vegetable-clad folk happened to glance out into the night and see the light of his eyes.

“Ah!” the man cried, startled back a step.

The celebration suddenly ground to a halt, musical accompaniment and dancing abandoned as all the town turned to face him. The Harvest King’s head snapped up and his eyes fell on the Beast. He stared, apparently astonished.

The Beast met his eyes defiantly.

“You… You came,” the Harvest King whispered.

“I did,” the Beast replied, and took a step forward, enough that the lights of the lamps fell on him. He spread his hands and tilted his head to one side. “Well? Is that all the welcome you have for me?”

“I…”

The Beast nearly jumped out of his skin when one of the townsfolk stepped forward and seized him by the hand. “You must be Mr. Hope!” he said cheerfully, shaking the Beast’s entire arm up and down. “Welcome to Pottsfield, friend! We’re so glad you could make it!”

The Beast’s eyes snapped from the man currently accosting him, back to the Harvest King.  Would he perhaps use the excuse of a being as vile as the Beast daring to touch one of his wards as a reason to act against him?

The Harvest King made no such moves, still staring at the Beast as if he could not believe it. Had he truly not expected his efforts to bear fruit so easily?

The Beast was suddenly preoccupied with a deluge of attention from the Harvest King’s followers, who swarmed him like locusts. They all seemed very intent on grabbing his hand and introducing themselves, and names like Aspen and Howden and Lulilly and Bleak crashed over him in waves. The Beast stayed stock-still through it all, unsure exactly how else to respond to this. Darted glances back to the Harvest King showed that he seemed to finally be overcoming the shock of the Beast’s presence, body language and expression shifting from one of surprise to something more like… consideration?

Had the whole town smelled of molasses and cinnamon when he first arrived? He wasn’t sure, but the scent was certainly pervasive now.

The Beast was distracted when the townspeople began to herd him off to a wide, long bench and the band started up again. Before he knew it, he was sitting down and had a cookie and a glass of some kind of liquid in his hands. A dozen carved smiles aimed themselves at him; the rest of the mob had filtered away somewhat. The Beast wondered why the Pottsfielders bothered with food and drink when they clearly didn’t need it, and didn’t seem likely to even be able to consume it.

“Oh, it’s so good to see you again, Mr. Hope. I’m not sure if you remember me, it was such a long time since we last met, but you made quite the impression on the community, let me tell you,” one of the townsfolk- Elizabeth or something- jabbered at him. “I told Enoch-”

The Beast flinched, spilling the cider over his hand.

“Oh! Dear me, I must have filled that glass too full. Here, here,” another woman, either the Howden one or the Mathers one, took the glass from him and thrust a handkerchief into his hand.

The Beast set the cookie aside and wiped the juice off, offering the handkerchief back to the woman after a moment’s hesitation.

“As I was saying, I told him that I was sure that you would be able to make it here. You must know how much you mean to all of us.”

“Oh yes, indeed! If it weren’t for you, none of us would be here!”

“We’re ever so grateful, Mr. Hope.”

“You must let us know if there’s anything that we can do to repay you.”

The Beast had never been mocked like this before. This town was very strange. “…I will,” he answered, because they seemed to be expecting a response. Several of the townsfolk tittered at the sound of his voice.

“Oh no, just listen to us! We’ve been monopolizing you,” Lily, or something, said. “Would you like to dance, Mr. Hope? We won’t keep you.”

“No.”

“Oh, well then, we’ll be more than happy to keep you company.”

The Beast looked at her for a moment before he glanced over to where the Harvest King stood-

The god was gone. Panic lurched behind his ribs. Of course, they had only been distractions, while the god set his plans into motion. Where was he, what was he planning on-?

“Excuse me, do you suppose I could squeeze in as well?” the god’s voice asked from somewhere to the left of him, and the Beast whirled around, very nearly knocking a pumpkin flying with his antlers.

The cat-skin stood there, highlighted orange and silver from the flames and the moonlight

“Of course, Enoch!”

Another flinch shook the Beast. No one seemed to notice, this time. The Beast’s captors swiftly shuffled around and, as if by magic, a spot on the bench next to the Beast appeared. The god hopped up and settled down.

“You’re looking much more lively now, Enoch,” one of the townsfolk said, and the Beast flinched again. “I’m glad to see that you’re feeling better.”

“Yes, I’m very much restored, Mr. Aspen. Thank you,” the god said, but his green eyes were on the Beast. The Beast cursed himself for his reactions. If the god decided to lever that weakness against him…

“Isn’t it so lovely to have Mr. Hope here? En-”

“It really is, Miss Lulilly. I’m very happy he managed to come,” the Harvest King said.

“It’s so nice to put a face to a voice, too! Oh, your songs have been incredible. I’m a very big fan of your version of the Reaper’s Dance. It really adds a lot of depth. Not that there’s anything wrong with the original either, of course. Which one is your favorite, E-”

“Well, Miss Clara, I’m very fond of the one about the wayward souls. Finding rest and peace in the earth, it’s all very soothing,” the god replied.

Soon everyone was voicing their opinion on the music the Beast had provided in the intervening months, and all of it seemed to be glowing.

“Well, I think I’d better see to it that the refreshments are tended to,” Miss Lulilly finally said, standing. When the others did not seem inclined to shift themselves, she coughed daintly. “Perhaps we should leave Mr. Hope and E- and the mayor to have some conversation alone?”

“Oh! Yes, of course. Lovely to meet you, Mr. Hope,” Miss Clara said, dipping a curtsy. The others made similar gestures and took their leave, though the Beast could still feel curious eyes on him from around the town square.

“They mean well,” the Harvest King said.

“I’m sure they do,” the Beast answered.

“…Your antlers look very handsome. I’m glad that you could…” the Harvest King trailed off and sighed. The cat’s ears drooped a little, then lifted, and he slowly, carefully, put one paw on the Beast’s arm. “And I’m really, truly glad that you came here, Beast. Please, if there’s anything you would like, don’t hesitate to tell me.”

“Very well,” the Beast replied, and felt the god’s songs twang in his heart at the contact between them. He did not pull away. That would be a sign of weakness, especially when there was nothing that a cat could do to harm him. “…Are the harvest songs for this celebration usually instrumental?” he asked, and inclined his head toward the band.

“Oh, no. I usually sing accompaniment, but I was a bit out-of-sorts this evening,” the Harvest King answered. “Would you care to sing? We could perform a duet.”

“You’d like me to sing with you?”

“Absolutely. You can sing whatever you like and I’ll follow. I think I know your repertoire pretty well by now.”

“Are you sure that what I choose will be appropriate?” the Beast asked.

“I’m sure that whatever you sing will be greatly enjoyed and appreciated.”

“Well, if you’re sure,” the Beast replied, and got to his feet. The cat hopped down beside him and motioned to the band, who paused as the Beast strode to the pavilion and took a breath. Everyone watched with rapt attention, and the Beast began to sing.

Once the Harvest King joined in, the band picked up the melody quickly enough, and soon the music was in full swing, and blended seamlessly into the next, and the next.

The moon was low in the sky and fingers of light began to show over the edge of the Eastern horizon before they finally stopped singing. Or, that was, until the Beast let the last note of his song ring out and paused in shock at the sight of the rapidly impending sunrise. The Harvest King and the band watched him expectantly.

“I need to go. Goodbye,” the Beast said curtly, and struck off towards the woods.

A great clamor arose in his wake.

“Wait! Mr. Hope!”

“Oh, you simply can’t leave now.”

“Stay for just a little while longer!”

“A day or two, at least.”

“We can find you somewhere to stay, during the night- I mean, day.”

“It wouldn’t be any trouble!”

“You haven’t had the tour yet!”

The Beast whipped around and started backing away from the horde that was advancing on him. “No, no. I really can’t stay. Really. I must be off.”

“Oh, but Mr. Hope!”

“Can’t we at least send you off with some leftovers?”

“No, thank you, Miss Lulilly. I will be fine,” the Beast said.

“You’ll come back soon, won’t you?”

“Tomorrow is supposed to be a fine night. I feel it in my bones!”

“We’d be ever so happy to have you!”

“Now, now, everyone. Give the man a little breathing room,” the Harvest King’s voice broke over the clamor, and the townsfolk fell silent for a moment. “You don’t wish to scare him away, do you?”

“No, you’re right,” Miss Elizabelle said with a sigh, before turning back to the Beast and suddenly seizing him around the chest and arms. The Beast went stock-still, and the woman gave him a squeeze. “Now, don’t be a stranger, you hear?”

“I… won’t?” the Beast said, and this seemed to placate her, because she released him. The Beast immediately scrambled back into the cornfields to avoid anyone else grabbing him, and was seen off by dozens of waves.

He had managed to get approximately halfway through the field before he realized he was not alone. He glanced downwards to see the god trotting along beside him.

“I’ll see you off,” the Harvest King said.

The Beast entertained thoughts of the corn stalks seizing him and holding him still for the god, out of the sight of his followers. He would have thought that the god would have enjoyed making a display out of him, but perhaps they were sensitive. “I cannot stop you,” the Beast replied.

“I wished to thank you for attending. It really does mean a lot, to me and to everyone. I do hope you enjoyed yourself, too.”

“It was… memorable.”

“I’ll take it,” the Harvest King said, as they emerged at the border. “There’s one more thing, Hope-Eater.”

The Beast tensed. Here it was. “Yes?”

“Your talent, the one with the sound in your forest. Does it work with voices?”

The Beast blinked. “Yes, of course. I’ve lured people astray with the voices of their loved ones many a time.”

“Does that mean you could make yourself a full choir?” the Harvest King asked.

The idea stunned the Beast for a moment, the unrealized possibilities whirling in his mind. “You…”

“I don’t mean to tell you how to manage your territory, of course, but I was just wonderi-”

“You’re a genius.”

“What?”

“That’s a brilliant idea!” the Beast exclaimed. “Not just vocals, either! I could have instruments! Symphonies! Orchestras! How could I have never thought of this before?”

“Happy to be of  assistance,” the Harvest King

“Immensely! Oh, I simply _must_ try that out! Thank you, Harvest King.”

The cat blinked slowly and twitched his whiskers in a smile. “You’re welcome, Hope-Eater. Good morning. I hope to see you again sometime.”

“Good morning to you, Lord of Joy. I will let you know how it goes,” the Beast replied, inclining his head before he slipped back into the forest.

It wasn’t until he was quite far into his forest again that he realized that he _still_ wasn’t sure what the Harvest King’s goal was.

It no longer seemed quite so important, though. And he could always try again later.


End file.
